


L'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle

by Glendaa



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angels have feelings and choose to pursue Love!, Humans reincarnate and chase the same Love!, M/M, Reincarnation, Time and Space don't matter, Timmy is otherwordly - yes we knew that!, eternal love, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 23:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18486313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glendaa/pseuds/Glendaa
Summary: What if Timmy’s otherwordliness is, in fact, Otherwordly?What if Love is none other than a chase that defies Time and Space and Occurences?





	1. ATTICA

**Author's Note:**

> Title means “the Love that moves the sun and the other stars”.   
> It’s the last line of Dante’s Divine Comedy.   
> The will and desire of the author/character is moved by a Force bigger than himself - that Force is Divine Love.   
> Is there anything more powerful in the whole universe? 
> 
>  
> 
> Full sentence is:  
> A l’alta fantasia qui mancò possa;  
> ma già volgeva il mio disio e ‘l velle,  
> sì come rota ch’igualmente è mossa,  
> l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.
> 
> Here force failed my high fantasy; but my  
> desire and will were moved already-like  
> a wheel revolving uniformly-by  
> the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.
> 
> Not betaed, all mistakes are mine.

 

The first time I see you, 

I’m a youth herding sheep across the rugged hills of Southern Attica.

 

The sun is strong in the sky.

It is only May but this year will be particularly torrid, leaving no respite to men and animals. Of course, I don’t know that yet.

How the wine will shrivel on the vines before its time - such a meager harvest to be had.

How people will cry over lost crops.

How infants and elders will die because of the scorching heat. 

 

I revel in the sun. 

I forget that my skin is too fair, so I burn. 

I learn.

I make me a hat of supple fig leaves. I swim frequently in the river. I rest in the shade like the black sheep does.

I learn how to be human.

 

\- - -

 

When we first meet, my body is lithe and supple, my curls dark, my lips a dewy rose. 

I know what you feel before you say it. 

You dab at your forehead with a ragged cloth, heaving for breath, deep exertion of crossing the hills to go find ‘the boy’ that everyone is talking about. The boy that you need for your statues.

 

You are old - scarce wisps of white hair dot your head, tiny spiderwebs of red capillaries on your cheeks. You pant for the effort and open the mouth to speak, only to close it again.

You are flustered, not only for the heat and the fatigue. 

 

I offer you water from my goatskin. You thank me profusely and look at me drinking from it, before taking it and pressing your lips to the very same spot.

Your light blue eyes sparkle with mischief. No matter how old you are - they are lively and pleased by what they see. Pleased by me.

 

Your manhood makes a valliant effort to stir. You shake your head, amused in yourself. How silly these things are, now that they don’t matter anymore.

“I need a model”, you say. “I’m-”

“I know who you are”, I answer. “I will follow you”. _There is no place I’d rather be._

 

I see you observing me.

Yes, my feet are rough. I’ve been walking barefoot since the beginning of this life.

I know, I am a shepherd. Your mind goes to Ganymedes. Would you like to be the Eagle that takes me to Mount Olympus?

Do you wish I’d lie with you, just to enjoy the feel of my firm skin under your calloused fingers?

Or do you innocently wish to give me immortality through your art? (Which I know to be magnificent).

Oh, how I wish you could know what I am.

 

I yearn for you to understand how I have observed from afar clusters of Divine Energy (that humans will later call cells and protons and quantum - how can you give a name to the majesty of the fragments of the Cosmic Dance?) mingle and clash and multiply to create the World and His creatures. 

How I longed for eons in the Peaceful Darkness.

Longed without knowing what longing was.

And for what, or whom, I longed.

How I saw a glimpse of you, somehow, and ran on the wings of curiosity only to find... you already were not.

How I did it again only to discover you were not... yet.

Oh, the disappointment. 

 

Now I find you, well it’s you that find me. I can finally see you, breathe you, touch you. And yet, you are almost gone. Again.

I can feel you will not survive the summer.

 

I follow you to your home. You proceed to work in such a frenzy I almost wonder if you know your time is quickly slipping away.

I tell you to rest. You shrug your shoulders.

“You don’t find a model like you any day”, you say.

I nod. You take me for boastful, but I’m not. I only know what I am. And yes. No one is like me.

 

You draw my face, my green eyes, my body countless times on parchment. What a pity no one will see your work. These materials are so brittle and Time is mighty.

You carve and model and sculpt, but will not see the finished bronze that is me. Your rendition of me.

 

You are trying to unveil the statue - they have covered it at the forge, they want you to be surprised - but the emotion is too much or you are just too sick and old. Your heart gives a harsher kick, than another.

You fall on the floor bringing the cloth with you. You get tangled in the coarse linen, what a perfect shroud you have made for yourself. You try to take a breath, but your lungs are not helping anymore.  
I can only come closer and smile softly at your congested face, hold your hand while the last breath leaves the dying shell of your body.

 

We were so close to be ‘us’, this time. 


	2. POZZO FRESCO (FLORENCE)

The second time I see you, 

you are a child. A beautiful blonde cherub starting to crawl on the stone floor of your home.

 

The woman you try to call mamma is not your mother. She is the wet nurse that your father left in charge of his well-kept secret.

 

I am her son, her younger son - the others lost at war or at the gambling table. The daughters, not that they are considered much, sent to serve in richer households (hoping they will avoid having a bastard for an offspring). As you are.

 

I am her son and you are just a nuisance in the form of a chubby baby.

 

The jealousy that I feel is very much real. There is no denying that in this incarnation business I become a human like everyone else.

So I hate you, for taking away my mother’s affection from me, but I love you at the same time.

The Force that has again propelled me through time and space to find you is substantial. No matter what.

 

Your real mother is a noble woman who got pregnant by her spiritual father. 

Oh, the scandal.

 

It is not so uncommon, but Florence right now is tumultuous - a renewed religious frenzy threatens to annihilate anything that seems remotely lustful.

Funny times are not.

 

So your pregnant mother went to visit relatives far away in the country, relieved herself of you and departed.

She will marry as a virgin in a couple months, her cunt filled with chicken blood for the first night. Her honour intact and her head very much attached to her body. (She won’t have other children, though. Life is weird like that - some times she will think about you.)

 

Your father, the clergy man, initially wanted to bring you to his convent as an orphan, but was afraid a resemblance later on would lead to questioning. Brave he is not. So he left you with a distant cousin.

 

We are related, in a way. 

 

What a life this is.

War and famine and horse shit and sickness.

Not too different from the last one (aside from the changed name of God).

 

Why do you always choose these harsh lives, I muse.

But, isn’t life as a human being inherently harsh? I tend to forget you are not like me.

 

You grow up and follow me everywhere. You put yourself in danger because you don’t want to be left behind. You want to do what I do, even if I’m three years older. 

 

My mother hits me when you fall off the tree and hurt your arm.

“It’s his fault, he wanted to see the birds in their nests”, I say.

 

She hits me again.

“He’s so beautiful”, she says. “He’s a noble man, that much is clear. Your disobedient curls are the work of the Devil!”.

 

She cuts them all off.

I look like a leper. I cry.

You kiss my wrecked scalp until I fall asleep. 

 

You almost drown near the mill and she beats me so hard I faint.

You yell and push at her. Your efforts are pitiful, she laughs and smacks you in the mouth. 

I am happy. Now we are together, two young boys against her.

 

I wonder if this will be our time, after all. This hard life in the Tuscan countryside.

 

When the sickness arrives to the village, we try to hide from it.

Clear air and good food will keep the plague away, they say.

We burn sage and cover our mouths when we meet other people. To no avail.

 

You are the first to fall ill. It figures, you are the youngest.

I steal a lute for you. You have always wanted to play an instrument - you pluck at the chords and smile.

 

I chew the first peaches of the season (they are sweet, oh so sweet) before giving them to you.

Your mouth is too sore for even the softest fruits.

Chewed peaches laced with my spit - I give of me like a mother would (a true mother, not the bitter hag we know).

I feed you like that baby bird we found once. He had fallen from its nest, you are falling from life herself. 

 

Poor child. My child. 

 

I’ve run for you from across the galaxies and still… we won’t be together. Not this time.

 

I die a couple days after you.

I still taste the sweetness of the peaches on my tongue, the warmth of your skin, the buzzing of the cicadas.


	3. INTERLUDE

Afterwards it starts to get hard.

 

It is hard. This.

 

The absence. The void.

 

This not seeing anything for ages and then catching a glimpse, only to arrive too early or too late. 

 

And if I get to meet you, if I find you - in time to see you and recognize you - it doesn’t last.

 

For a creature like me, the longing in itself is almost sweet. I have all the time in the world, after all.

 

It’s the abruptness that is torture.

Having you near me for just a second, experiencing a joy that doesn’t last, is a pain I didn’t know I was capable of.

 

How can anyone reconcile this?

I cannot.

  
I was advised not to go, to not follow the call of that fateful glimpse. The ‘falling stars’, that’s how they call you, because human lives are as precious and volatile as the echoes of a dying aster.

 

Once, I arrive at the place where you are being born just to see you being placed on the hearse. Your grown sons sob on your casket.

I see you reflected in their faces and bodies.

I sigh and go back to my work - my duty this time is to carry your body to the graveyard.

  
I’m not the only one who has followed the tug to his soul.

Who has jumped into the abyss knowing very well there was no turning back. Once you have a taste of the one you belong to, you will chase it forever.

Is it blasphemy to say that my soul belongs to someone other than God?

Maybe.

 

But no one has come to punish me for it. So He’s either ok with this or He simply doesn’t care. Fine with me.

 

I’m not the only one. At times I meet my brothers and sisters along the way. We nod the complicit smile of the rebels.

 

I see you again, for a quick moment, before being blown up in a WWI trench.

The look of horror in your eyes, at the cruel demise of me, will keep me atrocious company for long.

You were beautiful, though. Even skinny and filthy and with your face covered by the gas mask.

 

In time, some humans have started to muse about this incarnation thing.

They call it re-incarnation obviously, because they think that’s the protocol.

They are correct of course.

They are born through a body. That's what they know.

 

After death, their souls decide whether to bask in the Light of Divine Consciousness or to go back to the land of the living, to grow and evolve some more.

Some, whose life has been particularly difficult, decide to stay in the Light for some time, to recover. To rest.

Then, they go back and shed the Divine Light they experienced on unfinished healing. 

 

It is only us, the eternal beings - the seraphim (but call us what you want) - that have to willingly decide to incarnate. If and when we decide to give in and pursue ‘the glimpse’. 

 

A momentous decision.

 

As we rush into the fiery chase fueled by Love, we incarnate and become fully human.

 

Only difference between us celestial creatures and our friends the mortals?

When we meet the One, we know.

Our lives as humans get flooded by memories. Of who we are and who we Love.

We remember everything.

And it feels like coming home.


	4. CREMA

I’m hunched on the piano, trying to learn how to be Elio, when I feel your presence outside the door.

 

Everything comes to mind.

 

A rush of blood makes my ears sing and my heart pound.

 

My brother. My comrade. My friend. 

He’s here.

It’s him.

 

You open the door and extend your hand.

“I’m Armie. You must be Timmy. So happy to finally meet you”.

 

I swallow. _Yes, finally._

 

I look at you. I’ve never seen you so beautiful. 

Not too young, not too old. 

Not sick or hurt or dying. 

Just happy, smiling.

 

My palms sweat.

This body is nervous. I am nervous.

 

I blabber something about needing to keep practicing. 

You blush.

I do as well.

 

“Of course. Sorry”, you wink at me. “Later”.

 

Later comes dinner.

I meet your wife (of course you are married, why wouldn’t you be, you are healthy and beautiful and rich) and your daughter.

Curly blond hair that make me wonder if this is how a child of ours would look like.

 

Your wife is beautiful and pregnant. You don’t know it yet. It’s too early for both of you to notice.

I do, though. 

 

I feel a pang of jealousy.

 

Of course it should go like this - when I finally can be with you, in the same time and space, no wars, pestilence or horrid circumstances.

 

God must be an asshole or have a very weird sense of humor. 

I choose the second option - better not ruffle any feathers.

 

Filming starts soon and the wife leaves.

 

We spend lazy days getting to know each other. It’s Heaven on earth.

 

I, Timmy, am young and passionate and curious of everything. Not unlike my character, there’s so much I wish to explore with my beloved.

Anything you will give me, I will gladly take.

 

I, eternal being that I am, am somewhat calm and collected in the midst of all this.

I know this will not be the last time I’ll know you.

 

It’s weird, but all of a sudden I don’t want to rush anything.

We can just be colleagues (although I doubt it will only come to that) or friends (bros, they say nowadays). I’m sure of the latter. At the very least.

 

What I know is that this is our time. It has come, at last.

To whatever will come out of it… yes yes yes _yesyesyesyesyes._

 

You cannot feel such emotion through time and space without a sparkle of it remaining forever. So… you are looking at me.

 

Your eyes are mischievous, you shake your head. Mutter something to yourself.

 

You probably don’t understand, for now, the pull you feel.

I bet the lust your older self felt, thousands of years ago, has to be somewhere, somehow.

I smile to you.

 

You touch my freckles, count them.

I shiver under your touch.

 

I have to keep my eyes in check, though.

I know they are the most otherworldly part of me. They are mesmerizing to humans because they can catch a glimpse of the eons behind them.

I hope I can tone them down.

Right now I’m having a hard time focusing on my breathing.

 

Your eyes are beautiful as well, they contain emotion in multitudes.

A certain melancholy washes over them, at times, and sarcasm is never far (a long string of lives will do that to you, even if you don’t remember them).

 

We don’t know yet than in a few weeks you will be ranting against the director because he’s distracted by his new project (a horror movie?) while wrapping up this thing of beauty we are steeped in.

 

A Thing of Beauty that collects so much of what we experienced in our eternal past together - antiquities, summer, Italy, art, music, the pleasure of sticky fruits and sweet wine, _the longing, oh the longing_ , the consciousness of how everything is so quick to pass...

 

You will be ranting because you will not understand Why. You. Cannot. Give. Up. On. This.

 

This. Us. Our time together.

The summer of our first love.

 

You’ll be angry, I’ll be calm.

Because I know we will not grow apart. Not this time.

 

As of now, the director is still not being subject to your rage. He quietly says, “Let’s rehearse scene number 54”.

 

We leaf through the script and read.

 

I look at you and see you blush. I smirk.

 

_Elio and Oliver make out in the grass._

“Fucking finally”, I grin.


End file.
